Martin Penn lies spread-eagled as Noel Rios kneads his hairy chest, his tattooed shoulder peeking from the sheets, while green oil glides over his ass. Rios presses his fingers deep into Penn’s thighs, then drags them up his spine, the slick substance marking every ridge of muscle. The bed’s green padding absorbs the weight of their movements, the only sound the rhythmic press of palms against skin.
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